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Once upon a time, in a galaxy before Zef, Die Antwoord, Yolandi Vi$$er and DJ Hi-Tek, before Max Normal.TV and Constructus even, there was a talented Jozi-based rapper by the name of Watkin Tudor Jones Jr. Back then, in the winter of 2002, I asked the young MC to write a series of reviews of his favourite hip hop albums. It’s been a year since Watkin Tudor Jones was euthanised, in his memory we wanted to publish some of his thoughts on hip hop past, present and future. read more…
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Behind the boerewors curtain disciples sit steadfast, silent in support of the green and gold. The service is about to start, the air heavy and devout. The barmaid, double chinned and bulldog jowled, pours and skulks, skulks and pours. A T-shirt bearing the slogan “Come have a few beers with us” is tented tight between her sagging boobs and a belly even Buddha wouldn’t rub. read more…
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I suppose there is no better way to get over that World Cup “come down” than “blowing some shit up”, as my editor so eloquently put it. And by the look of De Waal drive backed up and the crowds that came out on this typically grey, miserable morning, a large part of Cape Town agrees. Maybe a scheduled demolition once a month, at least until summer, will protect the city from the winter blues and keep the newspaper column inches away from those pesky service delivery protests. read more…
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I’m poor. Relatively poor. Poor enough to have to sell treasured hardbacks – my Bukowski, my Hunter S and Heart of Darkness. Even my YDE gear had to go for money to buy milk. I considered the Mr Price stuff once. That was a low. Assistants pity me at used book stores -Folio on Claremont Main Road and The Book Shoppe in Retreat. They shake their heads. Oh God, here she is again! Tossing me a twenty for a novel in better times I forked out 300 big ones for. read more…
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At the album launch, the Plastics are introduced with something along the lines of: “And here are the Plastics, their new album was produced by Gordon Raphael, you know, the guy who produced the Strokes!” Alarm bells go off – oh shit, guys, if this is the horse you are riding then this is going to be a sad experience… but then the band takes the stage and turns my long-standing perception of them being dry live inside out. read more…
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The horror of Facebook, the deepest one, the most lastingly wounding, lies in how it turns our intimates into information. We’re all confessional blurts to be processed. Rather than rounded selves full of complexity and difference. The closest people in our lives increasingly become the sum of their wall posts. We’ve turned into a proliferating scroll of bulletins. A metastasizing network of confessors. read more…
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Italians have a popular representation in cinema and literature: macho, Machiavellian, masculine – perfectly dramatic, their musical language with its curvaceous notes; their gesticulating fingers, their goon-honour in the Godfather. So, it comes as nothing other than affirmation that the Italian males in Videocracy are militantly masculine: they command women, they mainline their arteries with power and wealth: their Italy is the Italy of excess and decadence, hypersexualisation in the land that gave us Passolini’s Salo. read more…
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Captain Dud |
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Contraption Distoria |
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Hello Sailor |
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The Freaks Will Have Their Stage |
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Killer Country |
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Getting Along |
